


Code Angel

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Fluff, Gen, POV Outsider, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 00:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19819165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: She didn’t fully understand this kind of miracle but she knew one thing for sure.When a Code Angel came to The Ritz, they should expect miracles to happen.





	Code Angel

**Author's Note:**

> I'm brand new to Good Omens but saw a post on tumblr about Ineffable Husbands from the perspective of the Ritz employees and decided that just had to be my first entry into this fandom.
> 
> For purpose of this story, I used the actual Ritz Restaurant London as my reference point as opposed to the one we see in show.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Brenda had a singular goal in mind for her future career; be a travel vlogger.

In fact, she was so committed to the dream that she’d gone to Uni for photojournalism, working her way through school as a waitress. As it was, she’d forgotten that one of the key aspects of being a successful travel vlogger was the actual travel. Unfortunately, she’d only been out of the country once--if people counted Scotland as out of the country--and had yet to take that “one big trip” that would catapult her career. Her instagram remained full of tourist locations around London that she’d seen a thousand times, but things her followers found amazing.

Four years, three thousand followers later, and she found herself still waiting tables, even if her place of employment was none of than the Ritz restaurant, which, by far, offered the most competitive rates to their waitstaff. A posh establishment with interior that reminded visitors of the 19th century, high tea with the Queen herself, and opulence adorned with crystal chandeliers and very real silver. Her dreams of travel might be helped along further if the wealthy proprietors tipped a bit more than a polite ten percent when they dined at the Ritz.

She plastered her flat walls with framed pictures of the Taj Mahal, Versailles, and Notre Dame. Pictures of the Great Wall, and Mt. Fuji, and St. Basil’s Cathedral. All places she wanted to see, to stand in. Places other than Buckingham or London Tower Bridge to take selfies in front of her for her followers to delight it. All were merely just dreams sans an unbelievable miracle.

A miracle that she told herself could be around any corner at any time.

Just one miracle.

Perhaps it was time to start playing the lotto.

*

The thing about being a senior employee of four years meant that Brenda got the distinct honor of training new employees in the form of a young man named Johnathan, just as optimistic as she was her first day. He’s attending Oxford, studying Philosophy, and swears to her that this job is just a stepping stone to pay his way through schooling. The other is a woman, Charlotte, in her thirties, with two kids, who just lost her job at a smaller establishment after it declared bankruptcy. She was looking to do more than live paycheck to paycheck. She wants to let her kids take gymnastics, or karate, whatever hobbies they wanted to take up that required dues and uniforms.

Both are able to put an air of professionalism that the job requires, dressing impeccably into the black uniform required of women, and the tails required of men. Their ties are knotted high, their coats buttoned, crisp, clean, perfection. Brenda has to correct the way Johnathan buttons his vest, pressing the dress code as their employers require, then it’s off to the floor. She shows them the basics of pre-opening, insuring the linen are unsoiled, pressed, and any that are not to the proper standards should be exchanged. Plates, saucers, and cutlery were generally set before the pre-opening staff got there, but mistakes happened and they’d have to make sure each place setting was right. Silver should be free of spots, placed on a triangle folded serviette.

They’d look over the reservations in the computer. They had a maître d'hôtel, who arrived thirty minutes before opening for breakfast, but Brenda was under the philosophy that it was ideal for the waitstaff to know their reservations. Normally, they were pretty booked day to day, but walk-ins happened fairly often so they were to try their best to accommodate each guest; she relayed.

Reservations were most commonly à la carte, but Brenda showed them custom options like the lunch special that included a signed Ritz cookbook. Due to Charlotte’s scheduling with her children, she’d primarily be working the breakfast or lunch shifts which didn’t seem as much of a juggle as the dinner rush. Regardless, she took them both through the options for lunch and dinner, making sure they took note of the reservations particularly for the live shows and pre-theater dining on the weekends. These options had set three-course menus, so they had to be sure not to offer the À la carte menus to these guests.

They sweep, and vacuum; Johnathan searches for an outlet for a solid ten minutes before Brenda takes pity on him and steers him to the host stand.

Breakfast goes as smooth as it can with trainees. They spend the first hour seating guests in the expansive dining room which allows her to point out where each section begins and ends. Brenda puts both Johnathan and Charlotte on their own tables for service, hovering nearby to make corrections, watching the way they make notes of the orders, advising them on how to short hand so the chefs understand. Charlotte stumbles over the electronic input system for orders, having to cancel out two before she presses the right buttons to send it back to the kitchen and Brenda walks her back to show her where she can add the hand-written order with the printed so nothing is missed; computers were prone to errors after all. Johnathan accidentally confuses the poached smoked haddock with the smoked haddock kedgeree, which Brenda has to fix. All in all they don’t make too many mistakes for their first breakfast service.

It’s the lunch rush they really have to focus on. The number of guests doubles, as do the menu options, as well as opening desert options, one of which is served tableside.

Brenda hovers a bit closer, double and triple checking every order. Correcting when Johnathan offers the wrong menu options for a pre-selected three-course reservation. She’s in the middle of telling him to write down the ceviche of scallop as opposed to isle de mull scallop when one of the other senior waitstaff, Benjamin, walks behind her, bottle of wine in his arms, whispering, “We have a Code Angel.”

For an entire second she forgets what she’s telling Johnathan until her brain comes back online just enough to complete out the order. Charlotte is right behind them to input her order and Brenda feels like she’s going to vibrate right out of her skin because she knows the table won’t be in her section given that she’s training, but that never stopped them before. She practically runs into the kitchen once Charlotte and Johnathan’s orders are in, both hurrying behind her asking if she’s okay.

Already half the morning waitstaff are in the kitchen, heads together, chattering while the head chef, Ray, declares loudly that they should cut straws to be fair.

“What time?” Sarah, the sous chef, questions, already checking her watch.

“Bumped out at 13:15,” another waiter, Hugh, answered, digging his phone out to check the time himself. “Marie said they had a sudden cancellation then it just appeared, like always,” he said, in reference to the maître d'hôtel who’d been with the hotel for six years now, the restaurant for five, and had seen this very thing happen exactly ten times; twice a year, always at lunch.

“Wait, what’s happening?” Charlotte questioned and everyone launched into explanations all at once--three waiters and five chefs--talking over the others in their hurry to offer the full explanation.

“They’re this older couple,” Brenda cuts in above the noise. “They’ve apparently been coming here for the past 11 years, if not earlier than that. All we know is that there’s _always_ a sudden cancellation and seconds later Mr. Fell has that spot. It’s always at lunch and always a table for two.”

“And whoever serves them always miraculously ends up with a very generous tip,” Hugh adds in. “The last man, Phillip, who just left, needed four hundred pounds for his wife’s hospital bill. Private care and all that. She was sick, you see, very much so. He served Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley, and suddenly there was four hundred pounds in his bank account with “compliments of Mr. Fell are your remarkable service,” and he’s not the only one. Marie, the maître d'hôtel, when she first started she needed a hundred pounds for a veterinary bill and Mr. Crowley just passed her a note on the way out. Martin, one of the evening sommeliers, ended up with three hundred and fifty pounds he needed to buy an engagement ring after serving them.”

“It why we call it a code angel,” James, another waiter, commented, walking into the back with two orders to be filled. “Miraculously, whoever serves them, ends up with just the right amount of money they need and honestly, if we’re doing a lotto, I want to draw. My car got dinged in the boot, and the mechanic is saying it’ll be six hundred pounds to fix.”

“Six hundred pounds would be enough for me to get to Greece,” Brenda comments. “I’d love to finally be able to travel. I have the vacation time.”

“Even three hundred pounds would be enough to get my kids started in after school programs,” Charlotte sighed wistfully.

“I wouldn’t say no to six hundred pounds,” Johnathan chimed in. “That would make a decent mark on my student fees.”

“Who was the last to serve them?” Ray questioned.

“Terri,” Hugh answered. “But he’s off today. So that leaves myself, James, Brenda, Maurice, Benjamin, and Arthur.”

“Well, go on, and take these out,” Sarah told them, sliding plates across to them, advising them of the temperature. “Call back Arthur then you lot can draw straws, only fair.”

Brenda gathers up the plates, putting them on a tray, handing one to Johnathan to serve his table and the other to Charlotte, handing them out with a motion of her arm, letting them lead the way. She helps to serve the meals, apologizing for any additional wait the guests had as they were trying to accommodate for a sudden cancellation. The woman at Charlotte’s table, sporting Louis Vuitton shopping bags, chuckles, commenting that it’s just the life of a restaurant she supposes before promptly taking a picture of her food for her instagram.

She can see Charlotte looking over the groups of tourists, taking pictures and videos, clearly on the lookout for their “code angel”, their special guests that would be arriving any minute. “Trust me, you won’t miss them,” Brenda informs her, nodding to Arthur as he types in an order, the man nodding back before ducking into the kitchen. “Mr. Crowley is, well, fairly gothic in style. Always in black, with very red hair, always wearing sunglasses. Mr. Fell is, well, he’s a dandy I suppose. Always in light colors, impeccably dressed with a vest, tartan bow tie, very light blonde hair, always with the brightest smile on his face. They’re very opposite.”

Once they’re all in the kitchen, Ray holds out cut pasta straws, remarking they have to be quick about it so the guests aren’t wondering where all the staff went. Charlotte and Johnathan are excluded for the drawing, their lot dependent on Brenda’s draw as she takes a straw, closing her fist around it silently praying to God that her luck would change. In her years at the Ritz she’d never actually gotten the chance to serve Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley, but maybe it was time for her luck to change; she could only hope.

She knows immediately it’s not Maurice as he has a choice set of French words to spit out as he tosses away the clearly longest straw. The rest of them wait, counting off to five before opening their hands. Brenda has to check her straw against Hugh’s at least three times as she can’t believe hers is just a hair shorter than his. She could cry.

Hugh grumbles but agrees to the luck of the draw, agreeing to cover Brenda’s section as she takes over the table that was in his.

When she steps out into the dinning room they’re already there, seated next to each other at the round table they always seemed to have reserved on the raised platform near their live pianist. They’re leaning close together, perusing a wine menu as the sommelier, Charles, offers his suggestions. He has a red on his arm, offering it up with words like full-body and opening up in the glass, phrases Brenda never really took time to learn. When it came to wine, she was quite fine with whatever bottle she found on sale at Tesco, chilled to perfection. They opt for a white, as usual, saying they’ll start with a glass of champagne--Brenda can’t recall them ever drinking a red--and trusts Charles to bring them something of his liking.

“Oh my, he’s quite attractive,” Charlotte remarks, eyes locked on Mr. Crowley.

“I personally think Mr. Fell looks like he’d be good to cuddle,” Brenda whispers before putting on her best customer service smile walking over after Charles finished pouring each of the men a flute of champagne.

“Ah, so many to help today,” Mr. Fell beams when they approach.

“I’m Brenda, I’ll be your server today. This is Charlotte, and Johnathan, my trainees today who will be observing me,” she informs them. “Have we decided what we’d like today?”

A useless question, Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley always knew what they wanted. They never needed time to peruse the menu.

“Yes, we’d like a courgette flower, beef tartar, and native lobster, as well as the crêpes suzette and amedei chocolate mousse, and I think that will do it,” Mr. Fell beams, already unfolding his napkin to rest across his lap.

“Sure you don’t want the mousseline, as well, angel?”

“Oh,” he blinks, looking between Mr. Crowley and Brenda. “You know what? Not today. Just the crêpes and the mousse.”

“Alright,” Brenda beams, writing everything down for them, including the white chocolate and coconut mousseline as Mr. Crowley gives her a pointed look clearly reading that his husband could have three desserts if he wanted. “I’ll put this in for you, and it will be ready shortly.”

“Thank you, wonderful,” Mr. Fell nods, turning to his champagne, lifting his glass, toasting something she can’t hear, clinking his glass against Mr. Crowley’s. Both share a secretive smile.

“Does Mr. Crowley just always look at him like that?” Charlotte asks, once they’re away at the kiosk, Brenda typing in the order. She glances over at the table to see Mr. Crowley, as usual, with an elbow on the table, casually sipping his champagne, eyes fixed on Mr. Fell as the man chatters. It’s as if Mr. Fell is saying the most interesting things in the world. Even with the sunglasses on, Brenda can tell Mr. Crowley is staring at him with nothing but adoration.

If she had a second goal in life--next after being a travel vlogger--it was to find her a person that looked at her the way Mr. Crowley looked at Mr. Fell.

She walked her trainees back to the kitchen, holding up the order, handing it directly to Ray who passed off the order he was working on to another one of the chefs to start immediately in on this order. As they waited, they helped run orders. Johnathan, more than once, tries to balance more than he can handle as if to show he’s got this already on his first day.

In less than twenty minutes--somehow, cooking Mr. Fell’s orders always seemed to go magically faster--the flower and tartar were up, the lobster right behind it, resting in a bed of pesto, surrounded by the chef’s own specialty lobster sauce, served with a lima bean medley. It always smelled heavenly to Brenda, yet, she didn’t have the fifty-nine pounds it’d cost to eat the dish. Instead, she lived vicariously through the numerous guests that ordered this very dish.

She loads all three dishes onto a tray, toting them out to the table, putting the lobster in front of Mr. Fell, the courgette flower as Mr. Crowley’s dish as he always went for the vegetarian options, and the beef tartar between them. “Dessert will be along shortly,” she smiles, asking if there’s anything else she can help them with.

Mr. Crowley is ready for a refill on his champagne and Charles is there, if on cue with the bottle to refill. In the proper Ritz fashion he holds the glass aloft, tilting it as he fills, adding a flourish as the bubbles reach the top before setting the glass back down. Brenda excuses herself, just to walk away to stand by the computer to watch the couple along with Charlotte and Johnathan who also seem to be craning to watch them. Likely, they’re wondering how they can get the money the couple leaves generously. If they should bring it up in conversation or just stay silent.

Mr. Fell takes a fork full of the lima bean medley, adding a bit of lemon verbena from the side, scooping both through the lobster sauce before holding it out to Mr. Crowley. Mr. Crowley shakes his head, refuses the bite, poking at the courgette flower. The red-haired man rarely eats when he’s at the Ritz, but usually ends up eating whatever his spouse orders for him, probably out of respect for the man’s feelings. Even though he tries to refuse the bite his husband offers, he eventually caves, leaning forward to take the offering, chewing it thoughtfully before sticking out his tongue. Mr. Fell chuckles, returning to his meal, dabbing his mouth daintily, as Mr. Crowley goes back to poking his flower.

Brenda knows, eventually, the gothic man will turn his head, pop the delicacy into his mouth as if trying to hide it and Mr. Fell will beam at him. She’s sure that when Mr. Fell offers that proud wide, toothy grin, that it melts Mr. Crowley to his very core, and she can’t particularly blame him.

In retrospect, the money she’ll likely get for today is nice, but watching a love like theirs is even nicer. The way Mr. Fell talks and Mr. Crowley actually listens in the way her ex never did; whoever said women were good listeners was a liar. He nodded, and responded in kind even if occasionally his nose wrinkled in dislike of whatever Mr. Fell spoke of. Mr Fell seemed to anticipate all of Mr. Crowley’s wants, raising his hand for a refill before Mr.Crowley hit the bottom of the glass. Pointedly, he’d not eat the entirety of his vegetables because apparently those were Mr. Crowley’s favorites. Her high school boyfriend did something similar, or more accurately, he selfishly took her chips when they went to eat, so she learned to just eat half knowing he’d just take them without asking. Maybe it wasn’t as romantic as Mr. Fell offering Mr. Crowley his favorites of the meal.

They laugh together, outright and genuine. Open with each other in a way only spouses who were also best friends tended to be. She saw her share of married couples in the Ritz, so often on phones, or recording for their vlogs, ignoring their significant other all together. These two were not like that and she envied that. This is truly a couple that’d die for each other.

Dessert comes next. As it were, she’s one of the three lunch staff with qualifications to serve the crêpe suzette at the table. “If I’m not here,” she tells Charlotte and Johnathan, handing off the amedei mousse to Charlotte. “Then you’d have to ask Maurice or James. Hugh is working on his qualifications to serve the crêpes,” she informs them, wheeling out the cooking table, loaded with all the ingredients she needed.

Mr. Fell perks straight up, and Mr. Crowley leans over to whisper something to his partner that has the man pinking about the cheeks.

She pours in the sugar, turning the flame on at a medium heat, waiting for it to brown. It can take a moment or two so she turns to the men at the table offering them a smile, “So, what are you gentleman doing after lunch?”

Mr. Crowley turns with an exaggerated movement, a hand under his chin, a sly smirk curling about his lips. “Yes, angel, what are we doing?”

Brenda wants to comment that ‘angel’ might be one of the cutest pet names she’s ever heard but instead she watches them, noticing how Mr. Fell’s cheeks pink a bit further. “You know exactly what we’re doing, my dear,” he responds.

“Do I now?” Mr. Crowley smirks, devilish.

“How long have you two been together?” Brenda conversates and both men look to each other.

“Since the beginning, I suppose,” Mr. Fell answers.

“Oh? Childhood friends? That’s very sweet,” she smiles. “Any children?”

“Godfathers to one anti-christ,” Mr. Crowley says and Charlotte laughs, commenting that her own children can be little devils on occasion. “You have no idea, mum, how devilish our god-son can be.”

“How devilish you can be, you mean,” Mr. Fell corrects. Mr. Crowley beams, all teeth, disarming.

“Only for you, angel.”

Brenda blushes and is again astonished by how much of a wonderful pair these two make. She wants to ask more about their marriage but the sugar is browning so she has no choice but to add the butter into the pan, stirring it as it melts to make the crêpe sauce. She adds the orange zest, holding up the bottle of Grand Marnier to show them before pouring in a liberal amount, keeping the dish moving constantly. The lemon juice comes next followed by the pancake itself, Mr. Fell sitting a bit straighter in his seat. She coats it, flipping it to coat both sides. Brenda goes for the brandy, asking Charlotte and Johnathan to step back as she pours it in on the edge of the flame, the pan coming to life in fire as she tosses it, making sure to keep it moving to cook evenly.

Now that she thinks about it, in a normal day when she works the lunch shift, she’s making anywhere from ten to fifteen of these per three hour lunch shift. How odd that no one seems to be ordering the crêpe suzette in the presence of Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley. As if they’re the only two people who see the item on the menu. Despite the fact that the show usually pulls in five immediate orders for the dish. She quickly plates it, serving it up to Mr. Fell who applauds her, complementing her amazing performance of cooking the dish.

He takes the first bite, coating it in the whipped cream she’d dolloped on the side, humming in delight as the pancake melted on his tongue. “You must try this, dear, might be the best crêpe I’ve had thus far.”

Mr. Fell takes another cut, adding a bit more whipped cream before holding it out to Mr. Crowley, encouraging him once again to try the food from his own fork. Mr. Crowley shakes his head before leaning forward, taking the bite. Brenda likes to assume his hand is on Mr. Fell’s thigh, stabilizing himself as he leans towards his husband for the treat. How amusing that men so opposite of each other seemed to compliment each other perfectly. It was the concept of yin and yang in physical form, right before her. Mr. Crowley was darkness, the moon. Mr. Fell was the light, the sun, and together they worked in tandem to complete each other.

Brenda didn’t really believe in soulmates but if they existed, then these two were it.

They gathered their things a quarter past two, walking to the door with Mr. Fell thanking everyone as he passed for such a lovely meal, all while wrapping a scarf about his ears. At the door they stop, and Brenda sees Mr. Crowley shove his hands into his pockets, shoulders slumping forward as if to curl his body against the weather. The news had said they could expect an afternoon chill today, getting down to a crisp nine degrees lending to her bringing a jumper. Mr. Crowley seemed to not like the cold at all, but also hadn’t brought his own jumper. Instead, Mr. Fell removed his own coat holding it out to Mr. Crowley who refused it. Not to be deterred Mr. Fell wrapped the coat around Mr. Crowley, bundling him tight, clasping the buttons in front. He also unwound his scarf from his own neck, a great tartan thing, to wrap around Mr. Crowley, covering half his face with the fabric, but apparently succeeding in warming him up enough for the man to stand taller. To be the proverbial cherry atop a sundae, Mr. Fell leans in, pecking a soft kiss to Mr. Crowley’s nose, beaming proudly at the man. Brenda is fairly sure she makes a cooing sound, echoed by several other women watching the display.

They don’t hold hands when they leave, but they walk close. Mr. Fell making an “after you” motion with his hand for them to set out from under the awning of the Ritz. As quick as they came, they were gone, just another story to be told in the kitchens.

Charlotte and Johnathan go home shortly after their Code Angel leaves. Both look dejected over the lack of a physical, cash in hand, large tip from the two. Brenda stays the extra two hours to clean up between the end of lunch and start of dinner service. She leaves out with Hugh, walking to Green Park station, mentally preparing herself to not fall asleep on the forty-five minute ride home to her flat in Bexley.

London Bridge Station is something she’s memorized at this point. Her usual train leaves from platform 6. Occasionally, she ducks in for a coffee at one of the kiosks on the way. If it’s one thing she knows it’s the adverts that line the walls of the station from McDonalds to the newest clothing lines. They change periodically, particularly when new movies are coming out, or a popular concert is coming to the city, but she feels like she knows the ones that have lined those brick walls for the past three months.

Today on her walk, she sees one that makes her stop.

The advert is for a club called _Temptation_. The picture is an angel and demon wrapped around each other, symmetrically aligned with each other, wings extended, the demon’s hands holding the angel like a precious gift, one at it’s waist, the other high on the angel’s back. For a moment, she blinks because all she sees is Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell. Only, Mr. Crowley has long hair, curling over his shoulders in loose curls, a pair of snake eyes staring laughingly out at her. Mr. Fell looks unchanged, hair still short, and blonde, eyes closed as he leans against Mr. Crowley’s chest. Both are nude as angels and demons are wont to be. The white wings at the foreground of the image a stark contrast to Mr. Crowley’s jet black wings in the background. When she blinks again the image is different, a stock photo of models, the demon a man, the angel a woman, posing with a photoshop background and wings, inviting you to try out the club.

It was so real that she doesn’t know what happened. What she does know is that she minutes away from missing her train. Brenda hurries up to platform 6, grabbing the train that will take her to Bexley just moments before the doors slide close. The second she takes her seat, her phone dings with a notification. She clicks it on to see a message from her bank, a deposit of exactly six hundred and fifty two pounds with a message that reads, “Enjoy Greece. Thank you for the wonderful crêpes. -Mr. Fell.”

She blinks, once, twice, and a single tear falls from her eye.

She didn’t fully understand this kind of miracle but she knew one thing for sure.

When a Code Angel came to The Ritz, they should expect miracles to happen.

**Author's Note:**

> All comments and kudos are extremely appreciated. Thank you for reading!


End file.
